


conviction

by aubadechild



Series: ShuAke Confidant Week 2018 [5]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Dubiously Accurate Gun Terminology, Gun Violence, M/M, New Game+, Spoilers, interrogation room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 21:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16503017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubadechild/pseuds/aubadechild
Summary: The worst kinds of prophecies are the self-fulfilling ones. Set in the real world's interrogation room, Akira tries to talk his way out of death by appealing to Akechi's kinder nature, but sometimes exposing someone's weaknesses only forces them to defend them all the more violently...{ mini-fic written for Shuake Confidant Week 2018 Day Five. }





	conviction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Slytherin_Elemental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherin_Elemental/gifts).



> another one for gabby - the angsty companion piece to [trust fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16494854).

“So it comes to this,” Akechi said, and Akira looked up at him with an expression equal parts regret and resignation. Sometimes he wondered if Akechi even _knew_ himself, if there was a fixed, polished identity beneath the masks he situationally created and donned. With the ease with which he flipped between them, and the massive discrepancy between his two distinct personalities, Akira was hesitant to believe that Akechi possessed anything resembling a fully-formed sense of self. Other times, however, Akira found himself caught off-guard by the stability Akechi displayed, by the integrity of his base character in spite of which mask he wore at the time.

But usually his experience of Akechi Goro cast doubt upon the theory that anything resembling a coherent person existed within. 

“Give yourself some credit,” Akira murmured, not bothering to hide the mounting sadness oozing from his bruised features. “I mean, I do. You should be proud. This was all you.”

“Don’t condescend to me.”

Akira laughed through the blood in his mouth. Despite his posturing, despite the way he held his body like it’d been bred for poise, all the elegance of a dancer layered atop the burning, barbarian rage beneath, he still trembled violently as he held the gun, as though he feared the bullet would kill him too. This was significant, somehow—his failure to commit to this particular murder, when in the past he had been such a dutiful little puppet, never tugged back on the strings that guided him along. His expressions waged civil war across his face: lips spasming and eyebrows drawn into creases that would prematurely age him ten years within the span of a few precious minutes. His apparent indecision was, in a word: _troubling._

He stared at Akira with a species of hatred that still had a heart.

“Don’t you know you should finish what you started?” he said, and Akechi inhaled sharply. 

“Shut up.” 

“But you can’t, can you? Because there’s still something in you that knows you’re better than this. And you _are_ better than this.”

Akechi seemed to consider that with a certain gravity that had not been present prior. His way of _considering_ involved clenching his jaw and curling his lip to show the bright white enamels of his teeth. Akira wondered how things might have gone differently had he acted on his concern for Akechi’s mental wellbeing. Had he been less afraid, less uncertain.

“All I have to do is pull this trigger. It’s not like I haven’t done it before,” Akechi told him. 

Akira stared up at him.

“And I’ll do it again, too,” Akechi continued. “Because I don’t have a choice. I’ll pull the trigger as many times as it takes, until—“

Akechi interrupted himself with a hoarse cough, and Akira tilted his head to one side, blinked. “Until what?” he asked. “There’s always a choice. You only think there isn’t one because you’re too much of a coward to take the other path. But I could help you.” 

Akechi eyed him with all the requisite suspicion of a superstar detective. “Can you?” 

“Trust me.”

Akechi’s grip on the gun wavered; he was shaking with such violence that Akira thought even if he shot point blank he’d still manage to miss somehow. “This is ridiculous,” he said. 

“No. All this business about cognitive worlds, Mementos— _that’s_ what’s ridiculous. But at least _us_? At least _The Phantom Thieves_? We’re changing this world for the better. Akechi, which would you rather have? A revenge that might make you feel better for a moment, but will still leave you with that crushing loneliness and a broken past that you can’t fix? Or a world in which people like you _never_ have to feel the way you did, ever again? I don’t know your history. I barely even know _you_. But I know there’s a way out.”

“The rest of the world can go to hell for all I care. I’m already so far beyond salvation, _Akira._ You’ll die despairing over the fact that you’ve finally found something that you can’t fix. You only care about your own _failure_. How that reflects on _you._ You don’t care what happens to me. _No one does_.”

Akira swallowed. His swollen eyes reduced his vision to impressions of shape and color as they began to fill with frustrated tears. 

“You sound dedicated,” he said. “I admire that. And I’m smart enough to know when to throw in the towel. I can’t help someone who refuses to help himself. So, do you want me to count down from three?”

Akechi shuddered, and Akira began to count:

“Three… two…”

“Stop it.” 

The gun clattered to the floor, and Akira emitted a strangled sound of surprise from the back of his throat as he found himself still alive despite the loud sound. Akechi deflated, collapsed in on himself as though his chest cavity had suddenly decided to buckle under the feeble pull of Earth’s gravity. He sank to the floor with his hands covering his face and sat there for a very, very long time, long enough that Akira had the luxury of feeling bored. 

“Hey…” he whispered, five minutes after he’d decided the silence had gone on too long.

Akechi’s response came in the form of a fist slammed into the table. Akira didn’t have it in him to flinch. 

“No,” Akechi said. His voice was a thin, ragged approximation of itself. “No. You’re wrong. I don’t have a choice. You’re wrong. I have to do this. There’s no other way. You’re wrong. You can’t be right. I don’t want to live in a world where _you’re right._ ” 

“But you already do. You don’t have to walk out of this room alone. Let me—”

“No,” Akechi said again, this time with increased conviction, and when he looked up it was with a glaze over his eyes that verged on trancelike. When he spoke again his voice had reverted back to its default, borderline cheery detective cadence. “That was an unfortunate lapse in judgment. I’m sorry you had to see that. For what it’s worth, Kurusu-san, I’m glad I got to know you a bit better before your death.” 

With a great effort Akechi used the table to pull himself up. His hair had fallen in tangles across his face, and he smoothed it behind his ears with one gloved hand. With the other he picked up the gun. This time he held his shooting arm steady, the barrel aimed perfectly at the space between Akira’s eyes. 

“If you want to prove to yourself you’re beyond salvation,” said Akira, “be my guest. But even if you pull the trigger, even if you prove it to everyone else—you aren’t fooling me.” 

The gun clicked to signal the release of the safety. 

“Goodbye, Kurusu Akira.” 

“See you soon, Goro.”

 _Bang._  


End file.
